


The Grapefruit Affair

by objectlesson



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Napoleon is a Tease, PWP, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be easier to resist Napoleon Solo were he not so infuriatingly irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grapefruit Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Someone wanted an TMFU prompt, and I gave "Napoleon seductively eating a grapefruit." But then I liked the idea so much I stole it back, and wrote this absurd PWP. Thank you to HurdyGurdy for the beta job!

It had been a long day of near-gunshot wounds and evading poison gases, and Illya badly wished he was spending the remaining hours of it alone in his hotel room instead of sitting on the floor of Gaby’s, biting a sizable hole into his own cheek and internally cursing. However, just as he had been about to sidle away after dinner, Napoleon caught his arm and shot him a disgruntled look. “Peril, don’t be such a Debbie Downer. We’re going to play records and drink ourselves sick tonight in celebration of not aspirating fumes and consequently perishing. You’re coming.”

“Debbie who?” Illya snapped, following Napoleon all the while. He had a splitting headache, and he neither felt like drinking nor jazz, but there was this _thing_ that happened every time Napoleon asked anything at all of him: he obeyed, as if it had been an order. It was very frustrating, but he had not found a way to beat it, so here he was. Watching Gaby dance around her room in sunglasses and one of Napoleon’s suit jackets, dwarfed by the shoulders and spinning on socked feet. Watching Gaby dance was much easier than watching Napoleon do whatever he was doing. This was a fact. 

Illya chewed the inside of his lip; Gaby spun a clumsy pirouette, sloshing wine over her hand. “Solo!” she called, tottering. “Where on earth did we put those fruits? I want some fruit with the chardonnay.” 

“Paper bag, kitchenette,” Illya answered for him. He knew because he saw it upon entering, and as a result, was forced to recall the farmer’s market Napoleon dragged them to a day or so prior, forced to recall Napoleon with his brow furrowed while he squeezed avocados with broad hands, making Illya feel like doing so was an obscene thing that should not be done in public because Napoleon was one of those people who looked insufferably good no matter what he was doing. 

“Ah,” Gaby answered. “You two want anything?” 

“No,” Illya said, imagining the burn of citrus in the new mouth wound he had created.

“One of those ruby red grapefruits,” Napoleon called from the couch where he was splayed lewdly, shoes kicked off and dress shirt unbuttoned. “Please,” he added, an afterthought.  

Napoleon took advantage of Gaby’s momentary occupation with the fruit and poked Illya in the center of his back with an index finger. “Look at me, Peril.” 

Cringing in spite of himself, Illya turned reflexively, gaze burning into Napoleon and his stupid exposed chest and stupid drunk flush. “ _What_?” he hissed through his teeth. 

Napoleon smiled smugly. “Nothing. Just wanted your eyes.” 

Heat spiked dizzyingly in Illya’s stomach, turning his guts with a wave of nauseating arousal. He blinked once, twice, caught dumb while Napoleon smiled at him, cheeks pink and eyes flashing until Gaby stomped back to the couch, brandishing a tangerine and a grapefruit. She tossed the latter to Napoleon, and he caught it easily. Illya turned back to the table where he had been uselessly, restlessly shuffling cards for the better part of the jazz record they’d been spinning. He stared at the well-worn deck, heart still thudding, insides still knotted. 

It would be easier to resist Napoleon Solo were he not so infuriatingly irresistible. Unfortunately for Illya, Napoleon was _quite_ irresistible. He was also quite confident in asking Illya for favors, knowing full well that Illya would do whatever he asked, would fall to his knees or follow him to the farmers market or take a bullet for him, if it came to that. It was an increasingly inconvenient character flaw of Illya’s: one Napoleon seemed to have very little concern about exploiting.

This was the way it had been ever since an incident from two months ago, back when they had been closing up an affair in Honduras. Napoleon sustained a few nasty blows during a bout of hand-to-hand combat as they apprehended a particularly spirited Nazi-scientist and, as a result, was somewhat clumsy and helpless when they returned to their camp. He milked his injury well into the next day, and it was not until Napoleon demanded that Illya help him undress for the shower did he realize how completely and totally he had been bending to Napoleon’s will, taking his orders, no matter how absurd they might be.

He remembered standing there in the hotel bathroom, fingers hooked under the hem of Napoleon’s ribbed undershirt, knuckles against warm skin, _stunned_. He had paused, pulse flickering too fast and cock twitching in his own trousers, and Napoleon, fucking _Napoleon Solo_ , with his stupid perfect hair and eyes like blue sea glass hugging an obsidian core, had asked _what are you doing?_ Like _Illya_ was the one leaning against the counter, shirtless and expectant and bruised but certainly not _broken_. 

 _What are_ you _doing, cowboy?_ Illya had shot back, raising an eyebrow, mostly at Napoleon but also at his own voice, which was much lower and reedier than he wanted it to be. 

 _Come here_ , Napoleon had said simply, inching a finger into Illya’s topmost buttonhole, pulling him in close enough to smell his cologne, spicy and expensive. _Come here_. 

And that had been that. Napoleon was irresistible, and lllya ceased being able to resist him, so the last two months had been a haze of train-stop bathrooms all across Europe, a blur of fingertips and bruises, raw and spit-slicked, and so good it hurt most of the time. 

They didn’t talk about it. Not really, anyway. Illya stopped worrying so much about his crumbling dignity somewhere between Honduras and here in Greece, realizing that he was no good at quitting this and didn’t really want to, even if he somehow found the power to wrench away. It was just the way things were; he spent a lot of time grinding his teeth and resenting Napoleon Solo for being so goddamned compelling, but he also spent a lot of time feeling things he had never felt in the whole of a life otherwise steeped in pain, so there was that. 

Napoleon really _shouldn’t_ have been so compelling, though. He was absurd; he was American the way those giant pick-up trucks were American. He was a questionable spy and an absolutely abhorrent driver; he was intolerably arrogant, and the way he flirted with women was stomach-turning at best. Then there was the whole _performance_ of Napoleon Solo. The fine clothes and epicurean cooking and ridiculously expensive taste, the styled hair, fastidiously clean nails, every single knife-scar covered in silk and sewn so neatly it healed into something almost respectable. He may have been a questionable spy, but even Illya felt fooled by his charm some days--the easy, effortless, well-oiled exterior that made Napoleon seem like any other bourgeoisie American tourist, rather than a man like Illya: a cruel man, a lethal man. 

Illya swallowed and risked a glance at Napoleon, lying there in his open shirt and navy trousers, digging his thumbnail into the grapefruit peel, tongue between his pursed lips. Illya’s cheeks heated up. There was only one unique circumstance, really, when he saw Napoleon unguarded, and it wasn’t when they were fucking. Even then, Napoleon teased too much, took too much pleasure in seeing Illya red-faced and groaning and undone, all the while maintaining his meticulous hair, his infuriating complacency. 

But when Napoleon ate something that he really enjoyed, it was a completely different story. 

Illya had dined out at fancy restaurants with Napoleon more times than he could count, so he knew he was _capable_ of eating like a normal person. He was capable of using a fork and chewing with his mouth closed and dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin between every bite like a civilized human being. But when he wasn’t out in public or if it was just the three of them and Napoleon had something he _really_ loved to sink his teeth into, watching him eat it was like witnessing a religious rite. It made Illya blush; it made him feel like he was spying on some private and illicit activity, something better suited to a confessional, behind a locked door. Napoleon ate like eating was fucking, his eyes shut so that his lashes fluttered against the curve of his cheek bone, moaning and sucking his fingers and making any number of completely inappropriate noises. 

The most horrible thing about all of this was that everything Napoleon did usually had some kind of _audience_. This particular act, however, was simply an expression of true and genuine pleasure. Illya knew because he’d walked in on Napoleon having a special moment with some truffles when there was absolutely no one to roll their eyes at his groans and slow, savoring bites, so he _knew_ that at its core, it wasn’t an act. 

Napoleon was peeling this particular grapefruit with such prudence, such _care_ , that Illya suspected he might be about to witness another obscene display of food-worship. He prepared himself, standing and relocating to a chair across the table from Napoleon, so he wouldn’t be so _close_ to the tangy, faintly piney smell of citrus, the sound of Napoleon’s fingers digging beneath the peel and separating it from pale white flesh. 

It was an unwise endeavor, seeing as it just made it easier for him to watch Napoleon at a distance. He tried to tear his eyes away, but he wasn’t very good at it; Napoleon had a deep crease in his forehead as he turned the fruit over in his palms, picking tiny strings and filaments off of it so that there was as little peel as possible left on the sphere. Illya could see the hint of pink showing though the casing, like a flush. His head was pounding, a sick kind of heat building at the base of his skull. Napoleon did not look up, for which he was grateful. 

Gaby turned the record over, dropped the needle, and continued to sway, her tangerine already peeled, halved, and demolished in the time it took Napoleon to get to the first segment of his grapefruit. The anticipation of the whole act had Illya’s mouth watering, even though he didn’t particularly _like_ red grapefruits; they were too sweet and too messy.

Mortifyingly, he almost gasped out loud when Napoleon pried the fruit apart with a wet sound and took a bite of the first wedge, juice dripping down his chin obscenely. Illya settled for casting his gaze furiously to the carpet, chewing his lip to a sharp, metallic rawness. “What on earth are you looking at?” Napoleon’s voice drawled from the couch, and Illya squinted so fiercely he saw stars. 

“You eat like a savage. You’re getting juice all over the carpet,” he improvised. 

“Well, I apologize, I know you’re the _epitome_ of table manners, but grapefruits are messy, and I nearly died inhaling neurotoxins today, so excuse me if I’m not on my best behavior,” he mumbled around a mouthful. It sounded too intriguing, and Illya had to look up, eyes falling upon the entirely life-ruining image of Napoleon's fingers knuckle deep in his own mouth while he sucked juice from them. They shined in the light as he withdrew them to separate another translucent membrane from the next citrus segment. It looked like he was holding a human heart in his hands, all the separate compartments and sections, flesh the color of blood run through with seeds, veins. Knuckles glistening, he pulled another wedge out and popped it inelegantly into his mouth. Illya wanted to break something. 

Napoleon had piled all the inedible bits in his empty wineglass; white pith and orange peel and pale pink membranes from between each wedge. “Do you have to do that?” Illya asked, irritated, despising the mess. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon assured him smugly. “You can’t pull the flesh from the casing with an orange, but you can with a grapefruit. Why settle for less than purity?” He sounded fucking _sinful_ , and Illya could probably kill him, so to save them both the inevitably gruesome aftermath of such a thing, he stood abruptly. 

“I am going to wash my hands,” he grumbled. “On your behalf.” 

Napoleon made a terrible noise, something wet and sucking and almost too soft to hear. “Have fun,” he called after Illya. 

In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, relieved at least to see that his reflection in the mirror didn’t _appear_ compromised; his hunger wasn’t showing through the cracks in his mask of indifference. Regardless, he stayed for a moment, replaying the image of Napoleon sucking grapefruit juice from his knuckles, imagining Napoleon ordering him to do it _for him_ , to clean him up with his tongue. He simultaneously wished that Napoleon would ask such a thing of him and gravely hoped that he wouldn’t. There was a sick and profound shame to how easily Illya caved to Napoleon’s wishes, how badly he wanted to do whatever Napoleon wanted. The shame of it was part of what turned him on, even if it stung later, made him weak with self-hatred as he laid awake some nights, hard and aching for Napoleon, who was probably asleep if he wasn’t deep inside some pretty stewardess, waitress, secretary. 

Illya had always liked following orders; it was _easy_. It was what he was good for. Didn’t mean he felt good _about_ it, even if he was good _at_ it. Especially when it was Napoleon Solo who was giving the orders, ridiculous Napoleon, his stupid pretty cowboy in his red, white, and blue. 

On stiff legs, Illya made himself leave the bathroom and return to Napoleon. The record ended again, but Gaby had fallen asleep, curled up in the comically huge suit jacket with her fake eyelashes still on, a tarry smudge against a pink cheek. Fondly, Illya covered her up in the down comforter, disentangling her arms from the jacket. The fabric smelled of Napoleon, his liquor and his cologne, and Illya’s stomach churned as he fought not to inhale. 

“Is she out cold? She got awful quiet,” Napoleon asked from the couch, chewing noisily. It sounded so wet, so lewd, and Illya’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment so he could just listen. 

“Yes,” he said eventually. “Got this for you.” He draped the jacket over Napoleon’s face so he didn’t have to look at him as he rounded the corner of the couch, resuming his place on the carpet at Napoleon’s feet. It was a subservient, suggestive place for him to be, and he knew this. 

Napoleon batted the jacket off, scoffing. “You’ll get grapefruit juice all over it. There’s a perfectly good coat rack by the door, _now_ who’s the savage?” 

Illya shrugged, letting his gaze climb up Napoleon’s forearm, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up to expose sinew and veins and muscle, standing out and flickering in a sheen of stickiness. “It wouldn’t a problem if you ate like an adult.” 

Napoleon made a face. “How on _earth_ are you so miserable all the time, Peril, my god.” He held his arm up in the light, squinting at the shining trails of juice winding down his palm and wrist. “I suppose I am somewhat worse for wear,” he mumbled before Illya decided he wasn’t going to wait for Napoleon to tell him what he wanted. He _couldn’t_ wait, he didn’t _care_ what Napoleon wanted, not right now, when the ache of his own want was so fucking distracting, beating inside of him like a second heartbeat. 

Illya got on his knees, leaning over Napoleon’s prone body and catching his wrist in a bruising grip. Then, with his eyes half-lidded and his stomach roiling in waves of heat, he fixed his open mouth onto the flicker of Napoleon’s pulse, right over his suicide vein. 

Napoleon froze under the desperate, hungry sweep of his tongue, a quiet and cut-off gasp catching in his throat like Illya had choked him. The sound of it made Illya’s vision get hazy and white as he sucked down the inside of Napoleon’s arm, licking up trails of tangy sour-sweetness, teeth razing gently, one hand open over the frantic thud of Napoleon’s heart. 

“Jesus,” Napoleon said after a moment of stunned silence. He got his other hand in Illya’s hair, making a fist in it to keep him there, to make sure he didn’t think better of this particular position and try to twist out of it. “You were watching me eat. Thinking about this, weren’t you.” 

Illya groaned wordlessly, lips crushed against Napoleon’s palm before he sucked two of his fingers into his mouth, teeth scraping the slide of skin over knuckles. He hollowed his cheeks out, choking himself on Napoleon’s fingers until he gagged a little, drooling. “Jesus fucking Christ, Illya,” Napoleon breathed again, fist tightening in Illya’s hair. “Look at you.” 

Illya could not look at himself so he made do with looking at Napoleon, gaze flicking to his face as he sucked hard on his fingers, grinding himself shamelessly against the edge of the couch, the plane of Napoleon’s thigh. As his eyes fell on Napoleon’s face, his heart all but stopped. He was _ruined_. Mouth parted, lower lip swollen from his own teeth, hair rucked up in back from rubbing his skull against the arm of the couch as Illya touched him. Eyes all pupil, cheeks flushed with blood; Napoleon Solo looked so fucking _undone_ Illya felt like his heart had broken open.

Napoleon was so completely and thoroughly focused on what Illya was doing to him, he had clearly forgotten about himself: the picture he made, the power he liked to wield. He was thrusting pathetically into the air, fucking his fingers into Illya’s mouth in time with the graceless bucks of his hips, drinking the whole spectacle in like he designed it. Illya briefly wondered if he had, and the mere thought made his teeth itch in a desperate kind of fury. He bit hard at the base of Napoleon’s fingers, deflecting all his feeling into the clamp of his jaw, and Napoleon cried out, entirely too loud for a room with a sleeping girl in it. 

Gaby made a sleepy, confused noise from the bed, and Illya smacked his hand across Napoleon’s mouth and nose to shut him up, cutting off his air so he struggled under him. So fucking beautiful, so messy and clumsy with want. Illya pulled off his fingers with a wet sound and dropped his face to Napoleon’s chest, breath wild and labored. “My room,” he said quietly, scouring the freshly shaven skin of his cheek against Napoleon’s chest, shaking, tongue stinging with the tang of grapefruit. The whole room smelled like fir and citrus and Napoleon’s sweat, and he was terribly dizzy with it, half-blind with want. 

Napoleon nodded frantically, cheeks flushed so deeply they were almost purple. Illya slowly let up the pressure on his hand so Napoleon could breathe, which he did so greedily, messily, lips swollen and spit-wet as he inhaled. “Fuck,” he said raggedly. “Ok...ok.” 

Illya stood on half-numb limbs to lead Napoleon out the door and into the hallway, leaving both their dress shoes in Gaby’s room, along with Napoleon’s belt, his suit jacket, and his grapefruit carnage in the empty wineglass. Then like bad criminals, like _worse_ spies, they stumbled hastily to Illya’s hotel room, several doors down from Gaby’s. 

With shaking fingers, Illya unlocked the door, Napoleon close behind him, breath warm and damp and uneven against his shoulder, fingers inching under the hem of his sweater and onto sweat-damp skin. Illya’s stomach flipped at the mere knowledge that Napoleon was touching him _out here_ , in the hallway of this fancy hotel in Athens. It made him feel crazy or drunk, and he was very relieved to let them both in and latch the door behind Napoleon. 

Before he could even get the light on, Napoleon was upon him, shoving him up against the door so hard his spine thwacked into the frame, scapulae stinging as Napoleon ground into him hard, mouth open and dirty on his throat, knee shoving between his thighs. “You,” he breathed between sucking wild, messy spots of color onto Illya’s neck, “are absolutely insane.” 

Illya had nothing to say to that, seeing as he did feel absolutely insane in this particular moment. He tried to shove Napoleon off, distantly aware that although the majority of his wardrobe consisted of turtle necks, it was probably not a very good idea to let Napoleon mark him up like this. It felt too good, though, and Napoleon was so persistent, heavy and yearning against him, thigh so broad and hot and perfect to grind against. “Bed,” Illya managed, panting. 

“Fuck,” Napoleon groaned, letting himself be backed up and toppled onto the bed clumsily as the edge of the mattress caught him in the backs of the knees. “Since when did you start telling me what to do?” 

Illya unbuckled his pants and stepped out of them before moving to straddle Napoleon, fitting their hips together and wincing at how raw and real it all felt. “Since I got tired waiting for you to tell me what to do,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to wonder if you were going to want me or not.” 

Napoleon shook his head, hair all undone from its usual oiled coif and strewn in a wild halo of black about his head. “I always want you,” he admitted, voice low. “You can do whatever you want to me.” 

A deep, aching coil of heat unwound and flickered in Illya’s gut, making his cock twitch. He watched as Napoleon struggled out of his trousers and dress shirt, both of which he tossed idly off the bed where they landed in a pile. It pleased Illya to see Napoleons fine clothing like that, wrinkled and forgotten, cast aside like a snake’s shed skin.

Feeling drunk on all the new skin there was to touch, Illya slid a broad, rough palm down the underside of Napoleon’s thigh, shoving it between the mattress and the curve of his ass. There, he tentatively inched his middle and ring fingers into the crack, sticky with humidity and coarse hair and a sheen of sweat, a musky darkness he hadn’t explored yet but desperately wanted to feel, to taste. “Here?” he asked, rubbing the tip of his index finger against the tight, hot pucker of Napoleon’s ass. 

“Fuck, yes,” Napoleon groaned, throwing his head and arching his back, pushing himself more firmly into the wide grip of Illya’s hand. “Please. Here,” he said, swinging a leg over Illya so he could roll over onto his stomach, one knee bent as he looked over his shoulder at him, face flushed, wild spots of color on his cheeks. He locked his wrist under that bent knee, pulling himself apart shamelessly. “Just use a lot of spit, it’s been awhile.”

Illya stared. Napoleon was humping the mattress like a dog, broken open like that grapefruit, like a human heart. He ground his hips in a circular motion, back arched and ass parted as Illya palmed over it, spreading the firm globes of muscle, eyes fixed in a desperate sort of hunger to the dark valley between them. He thumbed over Napoleon’s hole, biting his bottom lip so hard it stung. “Ты такая красивый,” Illya mumbled. 

“Fuck,” Napoleon hissed, chewing his lip, rubbing his cheek into the bed. “Just touch me, do anything,” he babbled mindlessly. “Please.” 

Illya held him open roughly with a thumb and leaned over the dip in his back, spitting a thick, frothy mouthful of saliva directly onto his hole. Napoleon hissed and twitched and writhed and groaned, like Illya’s spit on his ass was the best thing he’d ever felt. Heart pounding, Illya drooled messily onto two of his fingers, heart and head pounding. He briefly considered if he had ever wanted anything as badly as he wanted Napoleon Solo under him in this moment and realized with a terrifying sort of clarity that he certainly had not. 

Mouth dry and cock throbbing against Napoleon’s thigh, Illya slowly pushed his index finger into the tight, impossible heat of Napoleon’s ass. He was stunned by how easily he sunk into him, how willing and ready Napoleon’s body seemed to be to accept him. Napoleon let out a low, long groan, rutting desperately into the bed. “Fuck, more,” he begged, cocking his spine and impaling himself on Illya’s finger. “Want you to fill me up.” 

Feeling crazy with longing, Illya struggled to breathe, edging another finger in alongside the first. Napoleon was _so_ hot inside, unbearably hot, a searing, clenching fire-hot smoothness that Illya could hardly believe was real. He dropped his brow to the divot of Napoleon’s spine, biting and mouthing messily, tasting sweat and salt and, still, the burn of citrus. “You feel so good inside,” he mumbled against Napoleon’s skin. He didn’t think it was loud enough to hear, he certainly didn’t _intend_ for it to be, but Napoleon let out a low, pained groan after he said it, insides clamping down and pulsing around Illya’s fingers. 

“If it--ah--feels so _good_ , then why don’t you fuck me with some--something more than your fingers, _Christ_ Illya--” Napoleon panted brokenly, back twisted into such a low, deep bend that it looked painful. Illya fisted into his hair with his free hand, pulling his head away from the sheets so he could better see his gasping mouth.

“Yeah?” he asked, crooking his fingers deep inside experimentally, heart skipping as Napoleon cried out, wincing like it hurt so good. “Are you ready?” 

“ _Yes_ , yes, yes,” Napoleon groaned, in time with Illya’s jabbing fingers. “Please, just--”

Illya withdrew his fingers, examining them for a split second before he decided that this was not the worst nor the dirtiest thing he had ever done barehanded, and even if it _had_ been, the sounds Napoleon was making were more than worth it. He wiped his fingers on the hotel sheet with a deep burn collecting in his stomach at the notion of rubbing Napoleon on something so expensive, like grapefruit juice on his best suit jacket, marks encircling Illya’s neck like a dog’s collar. _Where is your decorum now?_ Illya thought, a little brokenly. 

“Come here,” Napoleon told him, like he was taking too long, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Illya, a chunk of damp black hair stuck to his forehead in a patina of sweat. Illya stared for a moment, confused until Napoleon grabbed him by the collar of his sweater and dragged him closer, close enough he could get his mouth on his cock. “I want to suck on you, _come here_ ,” Napoleon grumbled, eyes half-lidded and hazy, lower lip plush and nearly dripping with collected spit.

Normally, when Illya didn’t initially understand what Napoleon asked of him, Napoleon’s voice got curt, clipped, irritated. But right now, it only sounded wrecked, starving and desperate and snagged over barbs of wild and unchecked want. It made Illya’s stomach flip over; it made his breath stop short in his throat. 

Illya shifted forward awkwardly on his knees, nearly buckling and capsizing on top of Napoleon as he felt the glorious, terrible heat of Napoleon’s breath at the head of his cock, followed shortly by the even more glorious and terrible heat of his mouth. He stared down between his own braced arms, one locked against the mahogany headboard, the other clamped down on Napoleon’s ribcage with bruising force. Every time Napoleon did this to him, Illya was overcome. In fact, the first time it ever happened he had to hide his face in his own wadded up and discarded trousers to keep himself from coming embarrassingly fast, because to _see_ it was too much. Napoleon always looked so _good_ with his lips split over Illya’s length, but even then, he never looked _this_ good. 

Napoleon sucked him noisily, shamelessly, eyes twitching beneath the lids and cheeks hollowed and brow furrowed. It reminded Illya of the way he looked when he ate something he really loved, truffles or ruby grapefruits, the self-indulgence of a man who was not performing for an audience but was merely taking enormous pleasure in whatever it was he had in his mouth. Illya had to look away, lest he come prematurely, come before sinking into the heat of Napoleon’s body like he had been ordered to. 

“Stop,” he choked out before it was too late, and Napoleon groaned around him, sliding off noisily, coating Illya’s cock in a shining mouthful of thick saliva as he pulled away. 

“Okay,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse, crushed. “Now fuck me,” he asked, bowing his back, pushing his ass into the air. “Fill me up.” 

“Христос,” Illya breathed, shifting back on his heels, stripping out of his sweater now that it was clinging to all the places that were damp with sweat. He nudged just the tip of his cock against the wet, twitching crease of Napoleon’s ass, but  before he could align himself and push in, Napoleon reached behind himself gripped Illya, holding his cock steady as he lowered himself, splitting himself open. Napoleon made a high, keening noise as he sunk down onto Illya’s cock, letting go of him in favor of fisting into the bedspread. 

It felt like pushing into sunlight, something so white-hot and impossible that one should not look at it lest he get burnt. Illya cried out through his teeth, dripping sweat onto the obscene curve of Napoleon’s back as he just stayed there for a moment, grinding his hips into a circular motion against his ass, as deep as he could possibly sink into the terrible heat of him. 

He could feel Napoleon’s heartbeat from the inside out, and that thought alone was enough to make him throb, alarmingly close as he held Napoleon by his hips, withdrawing before slamming back down into him. 

“Fuck, _please_ ,” Napoleon nearly sobbed, arching his back. “As hard as you want, whatever you want,” he begged, impaling himself in small, shallow strokes as Illya fucked him slow. “You feel so good Illya, _fuck_.” 

Mouth open and drooling a string out onto the flexing muscle of Napoleon’s back, Illya thrust into him, abdominals shaking with the strain of holding himself up through the blinding rage of pleasure. Illya had fucked people before, this was certainly not the _first_ time, so he did not know why he felt like it was, why this seemed like such a revelation. Napoleon was practically crying beneath him, thighs splayed and quaking as he rocked back and forth in time with Illya’s thrusts, eyes screwed shut, face bright red, mouth a wide, wet, obscene blur against the sheets. Then, it occurred to Illya. He had never _seen_ Napoleon like this before, never seen him so broken open and ruined and helpless, sticky with spit, with fruit juice, with sweat. Not even when Illya licked citrus from his fingers or when Napoleon tongued truffle oil from the corner of his mouth with his eyes fluttering shut like the food was transcendent did he look like this. Did he _sound_ like this, raw and shattered and animal. 

Illya rode him relentlessly to finish, caving to the inevitable explosion of dizzying light behind his eyelids as he emptied himself inside Napoleon with wild, graceless snaps of his hips. He groaned a crazy, broken groan, lips mashed up against Napoleon’s scapulae, teeth scraping against bone. All the while, Napoleon fucked back up against him, so tight and pulsing around his length it _hurt_ : it was too much, like pressure on a raw nerve. 

He rolled off Napoleon’s prone body in a slick of come and spit, so sensitive he  ached, flinching at the drag of fabric against his skin as he collapsed onto his back. Haze of white clearing from his vision, he blinked to find Napoleon staring, propped up on an elbow and eyes roving over his bare chest, awed and hungry. “Next time,” Napoleon told him in a low, scraping voice, “I want you to hold on long enough you can feel me come while you’re still inside me.” 

Illya’s softening cock twitched, a tug in his gut that was so overworked and raw it _hurt_. “I...” he started, swallowing thickly. “Will try.” 

Napoleon jacked himself off, grip rough and desperate and graceless, cockhead leaking visibly on each downstroke. Illya was stunned to realize that even now, even after coming so hard the room was spinning and his skin felt used to the point of tearing, he wanted Napoleon. He wanted to shift down the bed so his head was level with Napoleon’s cock, he wanted to lick the beads of precum from the slit and swallow him down his throat. He wanted it so badly that he let out a muted, involuntary sound, eyes fixed to the rhythmic jerk of Napoleon’s wrist, where tendons stood out in stark relief at the strain. 

“You think I look good?” Napoleon breathed, bearing down on Illya, mouth skating up his ribs, tongue hot as it swept over a hard nipple. He used his teeth to draw it to a hard point, and then he sucked it into his mouth. “Touching myself for you?” he breathed around Illya’s skin.

“Yes,” Illya murmured, gritting his teeth at how fucking unbearable Napoleon’s mouth felt sucking on him, how wet and unreal and world-ending. “Want you all over again.” 

“Fuck,” Napoleon swore, cuffing Illya on the back of the neck and pulling him up into a searing kiss. He fucked his mouth open with his tongue, which tasted sour and sweet like grapefruit, faintly metallic like he’d bitten his own lips open somewhere during the storm of this. Illya’s stomach jolted as he realized that this kiss right here, filthy with acid and blood, was the first time they had kissed tonight, the first time he’d tasted Napoleon’s perfect swollen lips since they’d been dripping with grapefruit juice. He groaned, suddenly desperate for the taste of him, more blood and more spit.

Napoleon pulled away gasping, rutting against Illya’s hip while he jerked himself off. “Finger me open while I make myself come. Want you to feel it,” Napoleon mumbled into Illya’s lips. 

Illya flushed a deep scarlet, beyond caring how pathetically and eagerly he did whatever Napoleon wanted him to do, how badly he wanted to fill his every vacancy. He pushed Napoleon down onto his back with a broad palm on the center of his chest, thumbing over his sternum as he arranged himself, wincing, between Napoleon’s parted thighs. 

Rubbing up the crack of his ass with two fingers, Illya was stunned and moved to feel how raw and used up Napoleon was here, swollen and stretched out from being hollowed out by Illya’s cock. He bit his own lip, pushing up inside Napoleon easily with two fingers, feeling his own come inside Napoleon’s ass, still hot. His insides coiled with a filthy knowing as he touched the mess he made.The tendons in Napoleon’s neck flickered in their sheen of sweat, a hoarse, keening sound falling from his lips, and Illya wanted to hear it again, he wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life, he wanted to be better than every truffle in all of Europe, every single ruby red grapefruit pure and dismantled in Napoleon’s palms. 

He fucked Napoleon hard with two fingers, experimenting with different angles as he felt around inside of him, his slick hot walls clenching around his knuckles, the ring of muscle keeping him in deep. Napoleon’s wrist flexed as he touched himself, breath falling out in noisy, chaotic gasps, and Illya could tell he was close, could see the twitching and gathering in his sac as he got unbearably hot around him. 

“Fuck me, Illya,” he ground out, jaw tensing and spasming, a bright flush crawling all the way down his throat and staining his sternum in blotches. He was unbearably beautiful, spread out and shining with sweat and totally shameless as he rode Illya’s fingers, the most beautiful thing Illya had ever seen. He wondered, very briefly, how he was going to survive seeing Napoleon in his suit tomorrow, buttoned up to the throat, eyes glassy and mocking and blue like the Pacific Ocean, such a far cry from this ruined, broken thing spread out on his bed. It made him want to cover Napoleon in marks, break him open so obviously that there was no way to suture him closed. 

As Illya pawed all over the tremors of muscle in Napoleon’s stomach with his free hand, he added a third finger with the other, determined to split Napoleon apart, to destroy him, to peel all his filaments off until there was nothing but pure flesh, ruby red.

Then, Napoleon came. Arching his back up inelegantly off the mattress as he painted his own chest in parabolas of white, ribbons of come spilling over the clench of his fist so spectacularly that Illya thought of the rage of the surf, of fire works, of shotgun shells. Illya cried out alongside Napoleon as he came, stomach wrenching in stunned longing as he felt Napoleon spasm and pulse around him, insides gripping his fingers tight and pulling him deeper. It was like touching his beating heart, the most intimate and filthy thing Illya had ever felt, and he had to bury his face in the dark thatch of Napoleon’s pubic hair to keep him from seeing what it did to him, the profound wreck of overwhelm smudged across his face like blood. 

After a few long minutes of labored breathing, Napoleon eventually said, “You’re still inside me.” He arched his back, hissing at the feel of Illya’s knuckles shifting against his tender flesh. 

Illya gently thumbed along the stretch of skin between Napoleon’s asshole and his sac, mouth open and adhered to Napoleon’s side with a patina of spit. “Yes,” he admitted after a moment, unsure of what else he was supposed to say, what else there _was_ to say in such a position. “Am I hurting you?” 

“No,” Napoleon told him, voice strained as he shifted under Illya. “But you can’t stay there forever.”

Illya realized with a terrifying pang of panic in his chest that although it was certainly impractical, part of him _did_ want to stay there forever or at least stay on this side of Napoleon Solo forever. The ruined, cracked open side, the side that forgot it had an audience. He swallowed thickly, letting his fingers slide from the warm clench of Napoleon’s body with a sharp intake of breath. 

“Ah,” Napoleon hissed, gritting his teeth. “I’m gonna feel that tomorrow. And all night. In fact, it will be a miracle if something doesn’t spill out of me on the trip from here to my room.” 

Illya looked at Napoleon, his flushed cheeks and stupid, perfect smile. His hair might have still been a mess, but the color on his cheeks had faded somewhat, his self-awareness apparent again, visible in the hard lines of his face. He looked more put together than Illya liked, and all Illya could think of to say that would disarm him again was, “Don’t go back to your room.” 

It was not a question, not a suggestion. It was an order. Napoleon shut his mouth and stared up at Illya for a moment, eyes wide beneath arched brows. Before he could think of something clever to say in response, Illya caught his mouth and kissed him deep, licking at the ghosts of blood and citrus, sucking at the corners torn and raw. “Stay,” he demanded quietly into Napoleon’s mouth. Then, as an afterthought. “Please.” 

Napoleon shuddered against him, carding hands fiercely into his hair to keep him close, keep his mouth at biting distance as he said, “Told you, you can do whatever you want to me, Peril. Even keeping me hostage in your room like a dog.” 

Illya thought of the grapefruit, the trails of juice sliding from Napoleon’s palms, pink flesh beaded into tiny teardrops waiting to be crushed. _Even dig into your peel, slide my fingers between skin and muscle and pick you apart? When does this end?_ he wondered, sucking idly at Napoleon’s tongue, the salt and metal taste of him. 

Napoleon wrenched away, eyes such a bright and infernal blue that Illya forgot blue wasn't the color of fire. “Hey,” he said, voice hushed and breath all over Illya’s lips, “ _whatever_ you want.”

Nodding helplessly, Illya caught Napoleon’s mouth again, chewing at the raw swell of his lips, heart pounding alongside something huge and unnamed expanding inside his chest. 


End file.
